A harrowing glimpse into the mind of an England casual with Old Firm Facts

'What people don't understand is the diversity among supporters. In my group alone you had Terry from West Ham, Terry from Chelsea, Terry from Scunthorpe and Barry from Chelsea' (Image: Action Images via Reuters/Tom Jacobs)

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Recent events in Amsterdam have once again thrust England’s hooligan faction into the spotlight.

Over 100 England “fans” were arrested following clashes with police, bikes thrown into canals and other examples of mouth-breathery.

Police have highlighted the risk this behaviour poses to the majority of England fans, who wish to follow their team in a peaceful and optimistic manner, but who are now concerned about being targeted by ruthless Russian thugs and uncompromising police forces thanks to their association with these cretinous oiks.

Are they simply misunderstood though? No, they’re d**ks. Obviously.

Still, Glasgow Live managed to DeLorean ourselves a few months into the future and catch up with one Impotence Ultra, who shared his reflections on an eventful trip to Russia. What follows is a harrowing glimpse into the almost-mind of a hooligan.

From Russia, Love?

by Harry Brexit

World Cup 2018. Russia. The big one. A new generation mixed with a sprinkling of experience, ready to make their mark on the world stage.

We went into the tournament high on confidence after a morale-boosting performance in Amsterdam. We’d got our tactics just right, meaning we were in the right place at the right time to chuck pints and bicycles at middle-aged tourists. Apparently England beat Holland 1-0 too.

I couldn’t wait to soak in the historic, awe-inspiring sights of Russia and then throw plastic chairs at them. What people don't understand about these trips is the real diversity among the supporters. In my group alone you had Terry from West Ham, Terry from Chelsea, Terry from Scunthorpe and Barry from Chelsea. Somehow we put our differences to one side and learned to accept each other.

Any tension was extinguished within minutes of our boarding the flight from Heathrow, when I interrupted the stewardess' safety demonstration by shouting "Oi oi get 'em out love don't be shy" and was met with howls of approval from the rest of the lads.

We faced Tunisia in our opening match, which took place in Volgograd. The city was once known as Stalingrad, but as I said after a rendition of ‘Two World Wars and one World Cup’ against Germany, I’m not really interested in history. Political discussions, however, were positively encouraged. “You can stick your EU up your a**e”, I recall explaining to one elderly Russian shopkeeper.

Next we travelled to Nizhny Novgorod, where we met opponents unfamiliar (Panama) and familiar (tear gas). The atmosphere was sensational, with a personal highlight being our rousing rendition of “Stand up, if you hate Putin … and you’ve been disowned by your children and ostracised in the workplace”.

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Our final group match took place against Belgium in Kaliningrad, birthplace of philosopher Immanuel Kant. “We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals” said Kant, which suggests he’d have taken a dim view of the Russian police.

Apparently throwing waffles at Belgian fans is frowned upon in their part of the world. Those of us who weren’t fending off batons and water cannons were busy sticking it to the Russian hooligans. Mainly by assaulting their fists and knives with our faces and shins.

My nether regions were swollen with national pride. ENGLAND BOYS, WE ARE HERE. SH*G YOUR WOMEN, DRINK YOUR BEER. I tried explaining this to a Russian gentleman with “DEATH TO OUR ENEMIES” tattooed on his eyeballs, but I think there was a language barrier.

I saw Terry (Scunthorpe) lying on the ground after taking a hit from one of them big, burly Russian blokes. I smiled upon realising that the blood next to his head had congealed into the message "BREXIT MEANS BREXIT".

As the Russian policeman held my hands behind my back while the Russian Ultras took turns to rein blows down upon my shiny head, I couldn't help think how funny it was that those sweaty socks north of the border hadn't even qualified. "They're missing out" is what I would have said had I any teeth left.

We’re often accused of being anti-Scottish, but that’s wide of the mark. In fact, some of the most hilarious sexism on the trip came courtesy of a Scotch bloke we befriended called Malky. “Mate, you’re clogging up my WhatsApp photo library with these dodgy memes”, I told him while spraying Lynx Africa on my b**locks.

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Look, I’m aware of the accusations. You know, the idea that we’re a horde of gammon-faced cretins scraping our knuckles along the pavements of Europe, that we’re all faded bulldog tattoos and ill-fitting replica tops, that we’re xenophobic, homophobic, misogynist bigoted Neanderthals yearning for the glory days of an England that never really existed but at least had a few less brown folk, that we’ll happily intimidate, threaten and attack innocent bystanders but wilt in the face of proper thugs, that we’ve made it increasingly difficult for genuine, decent England fans with children to watch their team abroad for fear of being targeted simply because they’re wearing the same jersey as some of the world’s most loathed supporters, that our burping, bellowing and boorish bellendery is but a smart-price plaster on the gaping wound of sorrow, regret and desolation in our souls, that Sharon’s never going to take me back, that I’m sorry Sharon, that I’d do anything if you gave me another chance Sharon, that I promise I’d change Sharon, that this time it will be different Sharon I swear, that please don’t do this Sharon. It couldn’t be further from the truth though. My bulldog tattoo’s actually holding up quite well.

When I woke up six days later, the doctor informed me that England had been knocked out on penalties. Didn’t bother me. I’m not really into football.